Low Grade Regression IV 

Glitter-touch 

during a quartered moon 

of dancing, 

of fluorescent-blinding 

nonexistent distance 

too deep embracing scented necks 

and pills blue from Neptune. 

Dream-pop coated 

impulse is the daughter 

of unhinged desire. 

Ask the synesthetic orange wave 

convincing Greta Gerwig fans 

to fuck in the door-absent 

bathroom stall 

or the stabbing hours 

of the afterparty 

where my downfall 

is surrendering 

to nostalgia ultra 

voice mailing my father 

I cry watching the sunrise 

touch a cracked car windshield.